


WIP Amnesty, aka Gin's Unfinished Jobros Fics

by orphan_account



Category: JONAS RPF, Jonas Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Other, Unfinished, WIP Amnesty, werenick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:31:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like it says on the tin: whatever I've made inroads on. There's werewolf!Nick, a greaser AU, fanboy!Joe, and a whole bunch of other stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Those Who Walk Without Sin Are So Hungry (werewolf!Nick)

**Author's Note:**

> I have a fair amount of unfinished/partial Jonas Brothers RPF sitting on my harddrive, bemoaning my inability to poke at them. I figured someone would be interested. Some stuff that I post _may_ end up being finished; in that case, I'll take it down and make it its own fic with a link in the 'chapter' it used to contain. Some of these are really fun, and I badly want to get back to them!
> 
>  **Caveat lector:** There's probably brackets, scenes that trail off into nothing (or nonsense, knowing me). I've tried to catch any really jarring instances of me breaking off and indicating what comes next, but if you have to tilt your head to make sense of what's going on -- sorry! I suck, I know.
> 
> Werenick is set during the Camp Rock 2 tour era, whenever that was.
> 
> Title stolen from Neko Case's 'Pretty Girls,' which bears no thematic relation to the fic at all, but I don't care. Thanks to sainterre for sitting through the inception of this fic, and to yakbites for the exhaustively awesome help and hand-holding. And thanks to everyone who encouraged this ridiculousness!

Those Who Walk Without Sin Are So Hungry (werewolf!Nick)

\--

Cold air nipped at his fingers, and the light from the mini-fridge hurt his eyes. Nick leaned forward to fish his arm all the way to the back, hunting for one last popsicle Frankie might have left in there. His tongue was numb and dark as a bruise from eating five of them in less than an hour, but he couldn't kill the ache in his gums or the way his cheeks burned like he had a fever. The Excedrin he'd knocked back with dinner hadn't done much for his headache, either.

Apparently the grape flavor he'd eaten ten minutes ago was the last of them. He'd tried using ice before the popsicle, and it tasted like stale plastic from the freezer, no sugary syrup -- he should really check his levels -- to mask it. Nick was begrudgingly popping a few cubes out of the tray when a touch to his shoulder made his whole body jolt. One of the cubes dropped from his hand and onto the carpet, invisible in the dim light.

"What are you still doing up?"

He pulled himself up from his crouch and turned around, squinting to see Joe, bleary from sleep and rubbing at his arms. The ice was already melting in his palm. "I'm sorry."

"You've been up and down all night. Are you okay?"

"Headache," Nick said, the same excuse used at dinner when he sat with his back to a wall, jaw clenched shut. Every word twinged, his lip rubbing against swollen gums, and there was a dull pain in his mouth that went deeper than any toothache. "And now my mouth hurts. I ate like all of Frankie's popsicles."

"I think I've still got some pills from when I wrecked my shoulder," Joe offered, frowning at him. "Come on."

There wasn't anything to do but follow as Joe headed to the bathroom. His sweatpants were so big the hems dragged underneath his bare feet. Rivulets of cold water dripped down Nick's fingertips, dampening the side of his pants, and he slipped a piece of ice into his mouth, pushing it with his tongue to get it tucked into the right spot.

Joe turned on the bathroom light and went straight for his bag on the counter while Nick held back at the threshold, wincing at the brightness. He was a dark shape behind Joe in the gigantic mirror.

"I don't have my glasses," Joe said, holding a bottle an inch from his nose.

"It's not a big deal." It was awkward to shape words around the ice; he cracked it with his teeth.

"It _is_ a big deal." He picked up another bottle, bringing it so close to his face Nick wouldn't have been surprised if his eyes were crossing. "You never sleep anymore, and now you're getting headaches. When's your next appointment?"

Nick stepped forward and grabbed the bottle out of his hand impatiently. "These are your allergy pills." The other bottle was still on the counter. "These are the Vicodin." Joe expectantly held out his hand, and with a huff Nick gave it over. "My appointment is this week."

Joe shook out one pill, pulled his lower lip in with his teeth, and determinedly shook out another. "Here."

Nick took a plastic cup from the sink and freed it from its layer of protective cellophane, filling it with water from the sink. He hesitated a moment, but Joe was staring at him and he felt like he was going to pass out pretty soon if he didn't do something, so he popped the pill into his mouth and downed it with half the water in the cup. Joe took the cup from him when Nick went to trash it and drank the rest, which Nick always found a little weird, but whatever. Odds were he didn't have the flu, so Joe wasn't going to catch whatever it was.

"Try and get some sleep. Rehearsal tomorrow."

Nick nodded, tracking the movement in the mirror. God, he looked awful. He was squinting ridiculously because of the bright vanity lights, his hair a mess, and he didn't want to look closely at the circles under his eyes. He usually looked this bad after months of touring, so road weary he couldn't stand up straight, but they weren't even done with _rehearsals_ yet. The idea of performing for the next five or so months was a leaden weight in his stomach that threatened to rise up into his throat.

Meanwhile, Joe looked fine, if a little sleepy. He hugged Nick from behind it was bizarre seeing it from that angle, Joe's tan forearm crossing over Nick's white t-shirt, and wandered back to bed.

His mouth was still throbbing, and there was still one or two pieces of ice; he reached back into the freezer and grabbed one. Chewing ice was a bad habit his mom always tried to keep him from, saying it was bad for his teeth, but the crunch was kind of irresistible -- if _incredibly painful_ , considering how he just bit his lower hip so hard he could feel blood welling.

"Ow," Nick said to an empty room, garbled because of his lip and the pieces of ice still numbingly cold in his mouth. The tang of blood was distracting, but not as gross as it could have been. He swallowed, making a face at the bizarre slushie-esque mouthful he'd ended up with, and ran his tongue over the hurt spot on his lip, then his teeth.

Joe's pills were starting to hit, probably, because everything felt weird and extra-pronounced. His teeth felt super sharp, canines scraping over the tip of his tongue in a way he knew he'd fixate on unless he went to bed. Nick hated the way painkillers took him outside of himself and made him feel, but the one thing they would grant that he desperately needed?

Sleep.

–

The stage was finally set up, and they were working on running sound cables, but Nick was only half-aware of the adjustments and directions techs shouted from across the stage. He kept craning his neck to look around, shielding his eyes from the lights and the harsh mid-day sun. Checking his watch. It felt like he could feel each second tick by against his wrist.

Finally, forty-five minutes after they were supposed to, Demi and Joe showed up. At the same time. Her dark ponytail swung as she hurried toward him, but Joe was busy with something on his phone and he didn't look up from it, keeping a slow pace behind her.

"You're late," Nick said. He kept his guitar close to his body as he climbed down from the stage.

Demi gave him a sheepish smile, unscrewing a water bottle from craft services and taking a fast swig. "I know, I'm so sorry."

"Almost an hour," he pointed out, his eyes on Joe.

It was a full thirty seconds of Nick standing there waiting, hand wrapped tight around the neck of his Gibson until the strings bit lines into his fingers. Joe finally slipped his phone into his pocket and shrugged. "Sorry. Traffic sucked."

Nick's eyes narrowed. "Right. I know it's hard when you don't care, but could you at least _pretend_ to be professional?"

Demi looked up mid-swallow and Joe's eyes were startled wide behind his glasses. His mouth dropped open in a hollow laugh. "Wow," he said, tone as cheerful and Joe-like as ever, a sharp contrast. "That was really mean."

Nick replayed it in his head and nearly slumped over, mouth screwing up tight. "Yeah, it was. I don't know what's up with me. I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's cool, we know you're stressed out." Demi touched a soft hand to his arm and squeezed. Her nailpolish was a shiny blue that clashed with his skin, the bones in her wrist bird-fragile. She looked like she wanted to say more, but a PA came over with a look on her face that screamed urgent. "Yeah, I'm coming." She turned to go, the PA already barreling away, but she stopped long enough to give him sympathetic smile over her shoulder. Nick lifted his hand in a feeble wave.

"Nick needs a vacation," Kevin said from out of nowhere, biting the edge of a square of pepperjack, nearly making Nick jump. "A fun intervention."

"Yeah," Nick agreed, voice thick. He closed his eyes for a second and opened them again, trying to shake off the sour feeling curdling in his stomach. "Demi's right. It's probably stress."

"You should really take a day off," Joe said.

Kevin laughed, but Joe was dead serious, staring at Nick like no one else was there. "Yeah, we'll see if that ever happens." He reached his hand to Nick's shoulder and patted him there affectionately. His tone turned theatrical. "Be warned, some morning when you're sleeping, when you least expect it, we're busting into your room and taking you to Disneyland. Where you'll have fun. Against your will."

"I'd like to see you try," Nick said, sort of meaning it. Unless they brought Big Rob, they'd have a heck of a time getting him to do anything he didn't want to.

"Nick and I are going to lunch," Joe said so abruptly that both of them turned to look at him. "Kevin, you want anything?"

"Already ate." Kevin gave Nick another pat on the shoulder and followed it up with a little shove toward Joe. "Get out of here, I've got this for a while."

Joe's fingers clamped around Nick's wrist and led him away, Nick nearly tripping over his feet to keep up. Joe stopped long enough to let Big Rob know what was going on, but he still didn't let go, not until they were close to the car, Big Rob keeping a distance behind them. The venue was deserted except for crew, but clever fans been known to ninja their way in.

"You should have invited Kevin." Nick rubbed at his wrist. He didn't _want_ Kevin to come along, but he hated to be obvious about it.

"Kevin doesn't care," Joe said, exasperated. "And no one's all that excited about being around you right now, in case you hadn't noticed."

He'd noticed. He knew it was getting worse, too, because Joe was usually the one person he never felt like screaming at. Joe went around valiantly pretending that nothing was wrong, that Nick wasn't being a huge jerk. It wasn't like he was oblivious to what was going on; he shadowed Nick a little bit more, and brought him Vitamin water, took him out for burgers and steak so many times he had to be sick of them. He smiled and took up conversations when Nick fell silent, moonwalked down the hall to make Nick laugh. He didn't stare, or blow him off, or treat him like a kid having temper-tantrums, or look at him with barely concealed pity. Nick appreciated it. Joe was like a break from the rest of the world.

Apparently that had changed.

Joe huffed at his lack of response, shaking his head. "Is your headache gone?"

"Yes."

It was clear from the unimpressed look on Joe's face that Nick's attempts at lying were as unsuccessful as ever. "Turn around."

"It's healing fine," Nick protested, but turned around anyway. Big Rob disappeared from his periphery; Nick felt him lurking, though, like some oversized guardian angel.

He kept the wound bandaged while he was rehearsing; the heat and exertion made him sweat, which wasn't the most pleasant sensation. Joe's fingers plucked at the surgical tape and stirred the hair at the nape of Nick's neck. "Just let me check it. It could be infected. That could, like, get into your brain."

"I'm pretty sure the nurse would have noticed if my brain was infected," Nick said wryly, standing still while Joe carefully peeled back the gauze, tugging some when the sticky ointment he had to apply twice a day didn't want to let it go.

Joe was quiet. Nick rolled his shoulders, uncomfortable. The skin was sensitive there, so much so he had to sleep on his side still, and he could feel every time Joe exhaled, little puffs like a touch.

"It looks... better."

The first time Joe saw the bite was at the hospital. He was what Nick remembered more than anything else from that night; the white of his face as he sat in a chair catty-corner to the exam table. Everything up until then was a blur of confusion and A&E lights, but it came into focus when Joe and his mom got there. That was when Nick finally noticed the sting in his scraped and gritty palms, the ripped mess of his jeans, the lancing pain in his neck. His mom squeezed his sore hand in hers, and Nick just sat there, hissing breaths through his teeth, giving fuzzy answers to their questions, but mostly he watched Joe watch the doctor. He white-knuckled the arms of his chair as they pulled sponges away stained red, and Nick saw when Joe's mouth turned down when rabies shots were discussed.

Joe hadn't seen it up close since; their nurse changed the gauze, applied the ointment when Nick didn't, monitored his progress between appointments. It was nowhere near the ragged, deep mess it had been, just puncture wounds well on their way to healing now.

"Did you tell the doctor about your headaches?"

Their _mom_ had. She told Doctor Vash about his headaches, his trouble sleeping, his mood swings, the whole list of the symptoms that proved Nick's life had taken a wrong turn somewhere. He was lucky Joe hadn't been there too, or he'd probably be constrained to bedrest. As it was he got away with a recommendation for therapy, strict instructions to try and take it easy no one dared to suggest canceling shows as well as pills to take as needed for pain. They didn't work on the headaches. "Yes."

Joe hmmed and started to press the gauze back into place. Nick was ready for another round of questions, but Joe just said, "Let's go."

–--

They went to McDonalds, and Joe ate all of the fries Nick wouldn't touch. It was bad enough he kept eating the same crap; he didn't need to add unnecessary carbs to the equation.

They were seated outside, summer sun beating down on them mercilessly, but Nick's skin crawled at the idea of eating inside, and he didn't particularly want to get back in the car, either. Too small. Big Rob kept watch on the gaggle of teenage girls who snapped pictures of them with their cell phones, warning them off when they got too close.

Joe was quiet, although occasionally he knocked his boot against Nick's shin to get him to look up from his burger. Joe's was half-eaten, grease seeping stains into the Big Mac box. It was the fifth time they'd been to McDonalds in the last week. Joe had to be sick of it, but he never suggested anything else this time he'd even dragged Nick there, no questions asked.

Nick's spine went rigid and he impulsively pushed his soda away, watched it slide almost to Joe's edge of the table. "Aren't you tired of this?" he asked.

Joe shrugged. He pushed Nick's soda back, turning it so the logo faced Nick.

"Don't you want sushi or something?"

"I had sushi yesterday," Joe said, dragging a fry through a pool of ketchup. "I'm good."

Nick shifted around on the bench, limbs feeling stiff and jerky, and his foot knocked against Joe, an angry echo of before. "That's not my point. We keep going to burger places. Are you seriously telling me you want to eat burgers every other day?"

Joe's eyebrows rose. It made him look young. "You saying you didn't want to come here?"

"No," he admitted, teeth grinding, "I'm saying _you_ didn't."

Joe's eyes flicked to the table and back up, so quick it was almost unnoticeable, but Nick was watching Joe like a hawk. "Are you kidding? I got a milkshake. I _love_ this milkshake. I wouldn't trade this milkshake for the world." He picked it up and fit his lips around the straw, sucking cheerfully, obnoxious noises coming from the nearly empty cup.

Nick shook his head, smiling despite himself. "I have a hard time believing your true milkshake love."

When there was nothing left in the cup, Joe put it down with a satisfied sigh. "Yeah, well, shows what you know."

"I guess." That brought him to another question knocking around inside his head. "Hey, what's up with Demi?"

"What do you mean?"

"You can hardly stand being in the same room with her, and suddenly you're walking in together." He kept his mouth shut long enough to consider a few different ways he could say it. "You guys a thing again?"

Joe was chewing on his straw; it fell out of his mouth with a bark of startled laughter. "No, no. No way. I just..." He ate half of a fry and gestured aimlessly. "Dad told me I should try and talk to her. I don't want things to be weird on the tour. We've got enough to worry about."

" _Dad_ told you?" His mouth turned down, disapproving. "You couldn't think of something like that on your own?"

Joe's jaw clenched, and he looked down at the table, tapping his knuckles on it to a rhythm only he could hear. "Not really."

"Wow. It's a wonder you're single, Joseph," he said, in the sharp, authoritative tones of his mom when she was rarely but really and truly angry with one of them.

Joe's eyebrows knotted together, and Nick was so sickly ashamed of himself that he felt like making a run for the car. Before he could say anything, Joe did. "No, you're right. I kind of suck."

"No, you don't. I suck. I'm the king of suck. I wouldn't have wanted to talk to her at all."

Joe shrugged, keeping his hands busy and his gaze away from Nick by carefully sweeping spilled salt and whatever other disgusting things collected on the table into a napkin. "She was my friend."

"Right." Joe kept methodically cleaning the table. "Hey." He kicked Joe's ankle, gentler than he would have five minutes ago. "I'm serious. You don't suck."

[unfinished scene; essentially they bond a bit more and go back to work]

–--

Joe insisted on coming to the appointment, and Nick didn't have the will to tell him no. Not when pushing the issue would have meant a fight or Joe's ruthless hounding. He drew the line at letting him back in the exam room, though, after swearing about twenty times that he'd tell the doctor about his headaches and his brand new toothache problem.

He didn't. Nick was pretty sure telling her the truth would have led to a few months _away_ somewhere.

"It's almost healed," Doctor Vash said, gently pressing gloved fingers against the nape of his neck. "No sign of infection. Is there any pain?"

"Nothing bad. I sleep on my side."

She came around to face him, and he watched her snap off the latex gloves. They went into her coat pocket, two or three limp fingers peeking out over the edge. "Are your levels normal?"

"Yeah."

The rabies vaccine was sitting on the counter across from them. She was fast, efficient; he barely had his sleeve pulled up before she was back with a fresh pair of gloves on and the needle in her hand. There was a quick pinch in his bicep that he barely registered after so many years of shots, and Nick stared at the ugly painting on the wall, shapes and pastels that could have been faces as easily as landscapes, until she was done and tossing out the used needle.

The bandaid she unwrapped this time was a shiny purple. He stretched his arm gingerly, the muscles already aching. "You got lucky, Nick. There won't be much scarring. You should see a physician in a month, but call if you develop any new symptoms, or if your numbers change."

"But I'm free and clear?"

"You're fine." Her slightly too small dark eyes fixed on him, and she smiled, but it was rehearsed and professional. She was already down the hall with the next person's chart in her hand, not in the room with Nick. He still smiled back.

He followed her out after grabbing his jacket, smiling at a nurse wearing oversized Mickey Mouse scrubs who didn't do a very good job of hiding her blush when he did.

In the waiting room, Joe was sprawled out in a chair reading a copy of US Weekly with Nick's face on it, scowling, and his mom was doing something on her phone. They both looked up when he came closer, twin looks of concern shaping their faces. Nick shrugged.

"Dude," Joe said, flapping the magazine so fast Nick's face was a weird blur. "Can you believe this?"

"Honey, put that down, you'll tear it."

Nick ignored both of them even as they came up to flank him. There was a mug filled with Dum Dum lollipops next to a mug full of pens at the front desk, and he pocketed two of the cherry flavored for Joe, smiling at the receptionist.

They were a foot out of the door when the flashes started going off. Nick barely noticed the commotion; Big Rob was clearing a path to their SUV, and Joe took hold of Nick's elbow, steering him. He was lucky it wasn't the sore arm, or there would have been pictures of Nick smacking his brother all over the internet by lunch. He all but shoved Nick into the back eat, and Big Rob was already turning the key in the ignition when Joe climbed in next to him.

It was a huge production just to get him the six miles from the hotel to the doctor's office without having his clothes torn off in the process. Fans had good self-preservation instincts; they made _just_ enough room to let a car push through, even as they beat against the windows, but paparazzi crowded in even closer. There were only a few of them in Illinois, uprooting from L.A. just to chase the Nick Jonas story.

Nick looked outside at the flashes going off like a strobe. It was a while before Big Rob could maneuver them out of the parking lot.

Everything was tense and quiet until they got onto a proper street. His mom sighed, sounding more irritated than relieved, and rolled her shoulders, relaxing her posture against the seat. She glanced back at him.

"So?"

"I'm fine. I told you you guys didn't have to come with me."

Joe laughed. "Yeah, sure. Like that was ever going to happen." Nick wordlessly passed over the Dum Dums. "Oh, lollipops, awesome." There was a rustle of paper as Joe unwrapped one. "Seriously," he said, teeth clacking around the sucker, Nick was stupid to think that would shut him up for long, "What did she say? Do you go back?"

"I see someone for another check-up," Nick said. "Routine."

His mom smiled, then she slid sunglasses down to her nose from hair so springy it threatened to launch them onto the dashboard. "You're fine. Everything's getting back to normal."

Joe snorted. "That magazine was a week old," he pointed out, because he'd read it out of curiosity one day. It wasn't as bad as the ridiculous death rumors, or the NICK JONAS: DISFIGURED BY VICIOUS DOG ATTACK articles, but it wasn't helping to cool the frenzy, either. At least they'd stopped asking him if he was dying of rabies. "Stop freaking out."

"Yeah, and those paparazzi were a week old, right?"

"There are eight hundred photos of me getting gas, Joe."

"I know. It isn't right."

Joe was used to the paparazzi, they were a staple of life, like church or rehearsal or press junkets. Normally he went around like they weren't even there. His over-protectiveness was a new and strange development.

"I'm _fine_. You can stop worrying about me. Isn't that mom's job anyway?"

Joe stuck his tongue out, shockingly red from the dye, and Nick found himself smiling, shaking his head before turning away and looking out of the window again.

\--

They lost.

He gave a mechanical speech on camera for Cambio about getting it next time, learning from their mistakes. When the cameras were gone, all of the people remotely connected to press emptied out of the locker room, everyone started stripping off in a hurry for the showers. Everyone except for Joe and Kevin, who were eying Nick like he was a pot of boiling water about to overflow. Joe started moving toward him, eyebrows drawing together, but Jack got there first, towel slung around his neck.

"Good game, man," he said, putting a hand on Nick's shoulder and squeezing tight. He let go to give him an encouraging pat, moving on to the shower, and Nick was left standing there feeling like his blood was trying to burst out of his skin.

"Good game? Is that what you call that?" Kevin winced. Jack turned around, surprised. Nick clenched his fists. "I must have been the only one out on that field, because we were a _joke_."

"Nick," Kevin started, but it felt like everything was punching its way out of his chest to be heard.

"Base hits, nothing but singles, and we were lucky to _walk_ , everyone was batting -- batting like crap. I don't know how you can call something that pathetic a good game. Was I the only one awake out there?"

It was silent but for the sound of some showers running just out of view, steam starting to billow out into the locker room, and all eyes were on him.

Kevin was the only one who braved trying to come closer again, and he hovered at Nick's side. "Nick, when -- when was the last time you checked your levels?" His hand hesitantly came up, reaching to  
touch him, probably to steer him away like some child throwing a fit in public. Nick batted at his hands.

"You know what, don't even touch me right now."

Kevin dropped back, startled, and Nick was jutting his jaw forward and looking forward to a long shower and punching the wall a few times, but when he turned his dad was there, watching him, his mouth pinched.

"Nicholas."

\--

It was just the three of them in some empty room the staff probably used. The air conditioning was cranked up so high he was breaking into goosebumps, and sweat was drying tacky on his skin. He was still in full uniform, black grease under his eyes, and he kept turning his hat over and over in his hands. It was hard not to stare at the floor, to meet the way his parents stared at him. Nick hated disappointing people. He hated pity even more.

"I think we need to take a minute right now as a family and really think about what we're doing."

Nick nodded. There wasn't any excuse he could give, and he knew from the dread that burned in his throat like acid that talking his way out of it wasn't going to happen.

"We talked about this tour, and you told me you were going to go through with it. We talked about the games and you said the same thing. But the way you've been acting, it's pretty clear you can't handle it."

"Yes, sir," Nick said. "You're right."

"What're we going to do about it?" Nick ducked his head and stared at the logo on his hat. Some of the white threads were fraying, tiny little imperfections. "I think the best thing to do here is cancel the games."

"No," Nick said immediately, head jerking up. His mom's face fell, sadness creasing her smooth skin, and he was quick to continue. "Everyone shouldn't have to miss out because of me. Pull me out. Joe can cover me."

His dad looked at him with narrowed eyes, assessing. Nick held his breath, waiting for something, anything to break down the sour feeling in his chest. He felt like he'd snap in half if his dad shot him down. "That's a good decision, Nick. It's an adult decision."

[unfinished scene; some bridging stuff is needed here]

His mom took his hand, her fingers cool. Together they formed a close huddle, heads bowed to the floor. The murmur of his dad's voice was so familiar he didn't need to focus on the words, and he _couldn't_ ; it took all of his concentration to still the twitching in his hands, the urge to break away.

\--

[some scenes were meant to be in here, but I 1) don't remember what they are, and 2) never wrote them! yay me.]

"Nick."

His face was buried in a pillow, cotton and fabric softener making his head feel stuffy, and he turned just enough to see his mom standing by his bed in her favorite pink robe. He'd gotten her new ones, but she kept insisting this one was worn down just soft enough, even though there were some holes in the sleeves and the ends of the tie were ragged. "There's breakfast, sweetheart."

He rolled over onto his back, stretching and trying to work out the tight kink in his neck. "What time is it?"

"Eight-thirty."

He kicked the sheets and blankets off of his legs and stood up, trying to find his balance half-awake. "Why didn't you wake me?"

She just raised her eyebrows at him sardonically. "You needed to sleep. And you need to eat." His kit was on the bedside table, sandwiched between the lamp and the clock radio, and she picked up it, holding it toward him. "And you need to check your levels."

Nick took it and got out his meter and a test strip, barely needing to glance down to prep. "I remember setting my alarm," he said suspiciously.

"I had Joe turn it off," she said cheerfully, tilting her head to watch him click the lancet. "And we canceled everything but rehearsal and the meet and greet, so you can come and have a nice _long_ breakfast with your family."

"Gee, thanks," he muttered, but she laughed and headed to the door, closing it softly behind her.

\--

No one had gotten dressed but Nick; not even Big Rob, who was scrounging around sweatpants and a [] shirt so old and faded you couldn't read it. He looked up when Nick walked in. "We saved you some orange juice," he said, pointing to Frankie, who was holding the pitcher and filling his glass with wobbly hands.

"Great." The hotel kitchen had outdone itself; there was a platter of bacon and sausage each, and Joe was staring longingly at what looked like a mountain of scrambled eggs. Nick's body steered him to the table on instinct, and he didn't notice his mom until he was practically on top of her, his chest catching her outstretched arm.

"Are you low?" she asked, hurriedly setting cloyingly sweet maple syrup down on the table next to her French toast. He shook his head, and she cupped his cheek, turning his face to look from the table to her. Up so close she looked more than tired, worse than the day before, like she hadn't slept. Her hair even looked wilted, the curls less glossy. "You're okay?"

"Yeah, mom, I'm fine." Her eyes lightened a little when he smiled, and she drew him in for a hug, tugging until he leaned down and wound his arms around her. It felt the same as when he was a kid, though he dwarfed her now; she was still soft and sturdy, smelling like shampoo and the ghost of yesterday's perfume. Nick closed his eyes and tucked his face closer, chasing the smell.

He had a split second before it registered, and his whole body convulsed with the force of his gag. He tore away so fast he saw her wobble, passing by in a blur as he ran to the bathroom. It lingered in the back of his throat, on his clothes, sweat and blood and meat rotting in a garbage can, and he couldn't shake it, dry heaving all the way to the toilet. His knees hit the floor so hard it knocked the breath from him.

He could hear voices behind him, and he had the sense to flush the toilet before everyone could barge in.

[unfinished; the doctor is called]

Nick starts heaving more as she comes closer, and she's panicking a little, but she's his mom and used to being reliable/strong during a crisis, so she's calling the doctor and joe and frankie are in the doorway, his dad pulling frankie away. joe stays.

smells. he can't get rid of it, and joe's asking him what's wrong, and he just says migraine, and he starts pulling off his shirt and throwing it out of the room before he even realizes what's happening, muttering off, off, and joe's staying soothing, okay, okay, and nick's kicking off his pants and going into a cold/hot? shower wearing his briefs and shoving his face into the spray.

"... Nick?" Nick spat out the mouthful of water, rubbing his fingers across his face, under his nose. "The doctor's on the way. Do you -- are you all right? Can you come out of there?"

It was dissipating some now, hot water washing whatever it was away. Nick tilted his face up to the spray again and snorted, trying to flush his nose, and Joe made a distressed sound. "M'okay," he said. "Headache. I think mom's perfume set it off."

Joe was quiet, but he hadn't left; Nick could see his shape beyond the frosted glass of the shower door. "Heck of a headache. I'd bring you some pills but I think we should wait to talk to the doctor."

The idea of talking to the doctor with his mom and dad there, and Joe staunchly refusing to be locked out, made him groan and rest his forehead against the tiled wall of the shower. "Can you bring me some clothes?" he asked. "I don't want to get examined in a towel."

"Sure."

Nick ran water through his hair, following it with his fingers to tug out the tangles. He thought about shampooing it, but the idea of cracking open his shampoo made the back of his throat water, even though the smell was milder than soap. Joe was back just as he shut the water off, dripping and still a little woozy. Stripping his sopping underwear off would been an annoyance even if he hadn't felt like he was going to pass out. As it stood, he had to brace a hand against the door the whole time, pulling at fabric that wanted to suck close on his skin.

"I've got your clothes," Joe said.

"Hand me a towel," Nick said, pulling the door open until he could see Joe's face and part of the sink counter. He tried not to breathe too deeply.

It was white and fluffy, and Joe handed it to him like it was his favorite blanket or something, warily watching his face.

Nick gave a weak smile and harnessed it around his waist.

\--

[I found all of the following in a separate doc: it looks like it MIGHT be from an earlier draft, but it's still werenick, so!]

He wasn't fine. 

It wasn't a dog attack. 

It _probably_ wasn't a dog attack. 

The books he'd read said that the trauma of an incident like that could warp his memory, twist it around into something out of a nightmare. But Nick was fairly sure he would have remembered being attacked by a vicious, slavering German Sheppard, or something, not a five foot wolf in the middle of Toluca Lake. All of it was vivid; being on the ground, gritty pavement biting into his chin and cheek, the certainty that he was going to die, and even the ridiculous, incredulous thought he'd had at the time, _a wolf? Seriously?_

Then there was the pain. They'd given him a shot of morphine at the hospital, and his mom waited until it hit before tearfully demanding why he'd been out at one a.m. by himself, did he know where the dog came from, did he need anything? His answers were fuzzy and he was still hissing breaths out between his teeth; even through morphine, the puncture wounds throbbed, stinging from being cleaned out and the antiseptic they'd slathered on top. 

He finally got home that morning at nearly six, and he tried to sleep even though he could hear Joe and his dad murmuring through the walls. The first shots were scheduled at his doctor's office that afternoon at four, and he was wondering how much they'd hurt, remembering horror stories about needles in stomachs. Strung out on depleted adrenalin, morphine, and a healthy fear of anything canine - except Elvis, who was sleeping at his feet - he didn't notice the first creeping and paranoid thought that snuck into his brain. 

A wolf attacked him out of nowhere and left him with a huge bite on the back of his neck, but without any other scratch, almost like it was deliberate. That sort of thing happened in bad movies about werewolves. 

The thought was a one-two punch to his stomach, fear making his whole body clench tight until Elvis must have woken up, because he whined, and Nick had to talk himself down with every shred of rationality and sanity he had left. At some point it worked, and he fell asleep disdainful of himself. 

In an effort to banish the rest of his paranoia, he made a mental list of facts. It was mostly _werewolves do not exist_ , but when he added _it wasn't even the full moon_ , he made the crucial mistake of looking at his calendar to prove it. 

He was bitten by a wolf - a dog, a dog that looked like a wolf, a Husky or a Malamute or something - during a full moon. Big deal. Freaky coincidence. 

Nick's mom interrupted his intense staring-at-the-calendar session by calling him to the kitchen for pancakes. 

That was fourteen days ago. He tried not to think about it. He chalked it up to a bad, once in a million experience. 

But his mom would come into his room to remind him to put ointment on the scars, and his thin little illusion that nothing was wrong would evaporate, leaving him alone with a hallucination that masqueraded as a memory. 

–

Nick came out of his room with a burning desire for food and to kill a few hours beating Joe at Call of Duty. The collar of the shirt he'd slept in was stuck to his skin, the ointment so sticky everything from lint to stray hairs caught and started to dry in it. He peeled the fabric back and wandered into the kitchen. 

The tv was on, and Joe was sitting on the couch watching it. Demi was next to him. Nick paused, grip tight on the fridge's door handle, and slowly opened it, not believing his eyes. The sound made them both look up. 

"Hey, stranger." Demi smiled at him, the first time in a long time a camera lens hadn't been involved in the equation. 

"Hey." There was string cheese in the fridge and not much else he wanted to eat. The day before he'd eaten all of Frankie's hot dogs and the rest of the lunch meat, so none of that was left. He hoped his mom was out shopping. "Have you guys eaten lunch?" he asked, wondering at the words coming out of his mouth. He wanted to ask when _this_ had happened, but the expression he'd seen on her face was easy and comfortable and he'd be a jerk to ruin it. 

They were sitting at least a cushion apart on the couch. It didn't look like they'd been crying or making out. Nick felt like he was looking at one of Frankie's Magic Eye books and it hadn't revealed its hidden image to him yet. 

"We were just going to Prosecco," Demi said. 

Nick slammed the fridge door so hard the condiments rattled. He pulled away, surprised at himself, and went to get a glass of water instead. 

"Do you want me to bring you back something?" Joe asked. 

Nick gulped down half of the glass and shook his head. "No, I don't want to wait. You guys have fun." The water left it in the glass went down the sink. He made himself stop again. "It's nice seeing you, Demi." 

He headed to his bedroom before she could answer him, but he heard her indistinctly saying something to Joe, tone questioning, then the low murmur of Joe's answer. He could imagine what it was; is he okay, he seems off, is it the attack? She wouldn't be the first person to ask. Frankie went to mom the second or third time Nick snapped at him. He felt so bad after he found out that he went and played GI Joes with him for like an hour, hugging him and breathing in his apple shampoo, feeling like the worst brother ever. The books said mood swings were common; he knew mood swings, knew how he got if he didn't keep an eye on his sugar, and this was an entirely new beast. He didn't know how to deal with it. The books also suggested therapy if it was a problem, but news of that would get out in .2 seconds, so he went to his dad. 

His dad said that fear did strange things, and he wanted Nick to talk about it, but Nick had a hard time lying around the fact that he thought it wasn't a dog. They ended up praying, and he felt better over snapping at Frankie, but by the end of the day he wanted to throw his laptop across the room when it crashed. His mom heard him swearing and he was on dish washing duty for the next week. 

Nick waited until he heard the front door close, the sound of Joe's G-wagen starting up, before he got out his phone. _Sorry I was rude, didn't sleep well. Have a good lunch._

He checked his OmniPod and ordered a pizza. 

\-- 

It kept getting worse. 

Instead of feeling like things were getting back to normal, as every day went by he felt more like a stranger. One minute Nick was fine, and the next minute people were staring at him like he'd grown a second head. Mostly it was general snappishness, but occasionally he cringed to remember what came out of his mouth. Low-level irritation was constantly buzzing under his skin, disbelief and guilt and frustration over not being able to control his stupid mouth. 

The tour loomed, rehearsals constant, and they _still_ hadn't determined if the stage was up to safety standards. Everyone shrugged off his requests for second and third run-throughs, because that was nothing particularly new, but if someone questioned a suggestion or an arrangement change or a staging decision, Nick wanted to punch them. Or fire them. 

He obsessively checked his sugar, the only thing he could think of that might explain his behavior, but it was bogglingly consistent. He probably did need therapy. He thought about asking his mom to find some for him, but he imagined his dad's face and abandoned the idea. 

\--

[And that's all I have in the werenick document, folks! There's a whole bunch of stuff plotted that comes after, and I hope to get back to it someday. If anyone has something in particular they'd like to see in a werenick verse, let me know.]


	2. Yellow Bag (aka Nick works at Forever 21)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone remember that weird reality show where Nick J went undercover as a sassy Forever 21 employee named Bradley Cooper? Because I do, and I started an AU fic where "Bradley Cooper" had to put up with Joe as a customer. It was going to end in dating and makeouts and probably handjobs.

He was already in a bad mood; he was _supposed_ to have Friday and Saturday off, but Melanie was striving for an incompetence award and scheduled him for split days instead. When Bradley brought it up, she stared at him blankly and didn't even bother to apologize. 

He had eight hours on the floor to look forward to, pricing clearance and untangling belts or rehanging them when they mysteriously ended up all over the ground. The women's section was nearly always terrifying, and it seemed to somehow migrate into the men's. He found _two pairs_ of stilettos jammed underneath a pile of t-shirts. _Two_.

Ten minutes before his lunch break, a couple came in holding hands. He was too far away to greet them, and he wasn't moving any closer unless they gave him that freaking fifteen-cent raise he'd been prostrating himself for -- which he was starting to think would only happen if he killed Melanie and dumped her body behind the Gap. 

The girl wandered over to look at the shoes. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on folding cardigans in an effort not to dog her every step as an anti-shoe hiding precaution.

It was a surprise when the guy came up behind him. "Hi," was right in his ear out of nowhere. 

Bradley managed not to jump or swear. "Can I help you?" he asked, shifting sideways to look at him.

He smiled wide, shrugging. He was cute, but so were the hundreds of hipsters who came in and badly pretended that they didn't know he was gay, like working at Forever 21 wasn't the most obvious thing ever. "Sure, I guess. I need some help picking out pants."

Bradley abandoned the cardigans for later and wondered why the hell he couldn't just ask his girlfriend. Most girls lived to dress their boyfriends, some kind of holdover from the Barbie and Ken days, and with about as much success; they usually ended up looking stiff and fake. You couldn't put a jock into skinny jeans, and no amount of coercive head was ever going to change that. "What are you looking for? Is it for a special occasion?"

"No, I mean..." He spread his hands, gesturing down to his thighs. "I just need new pants."

He certainly did.

They were yellow.

Bradley kept his face as neutral as possible. "Do you have a style preference?" He gestured for the guy to follow him over to men's, casting a glance over to shoes to check that his girlfriend was still over there and not causing any destruction. She was holding two nearly identical pairs of black boots with a fiercely torn expression on her face Nick was sadly familiar with by now.

"Hmm? No, I don't think so."

Bradley checked his watch. Eight minutes until lunch. And he was doomed to spend at least twenty fetching him every ugly pair of jeans in the store. All he wanted was forty-five minutes in the back with his garden burger and a Coke Zero. It was apparently too much to ask. "We have a bunch of shorts in for the season. Cargo, denim."

He laughed. "No, that's – no shorts. I can't really rock shorts, you know?"

"Well." He picked up a pair of woven jeans. "This?"

The guy reached out and touched them thoughtfully, rubbing the material between his fingers. "Sure. Do you have any in black?"

Wordlessly, Bradley turned around and grabbed a pair in black. "What's your size?"

"Thirty."

"We have some regular skinny jeans too."

"Yeah, great, a pair of those."

He seemed content to watch Bradley basically just turn around and grab pairs of jeans. It wasn't like he couldn't do it himself, unless he secretly had some weird arm problem that prohibited movement, which, no. "Anything else?"

Bradley's eyes narrowed when he bit his lip and shifted his weight. "Uh. Do you think you could tell me how these look on? I can never tell in those mirrors, and I won't take very long, I promise. I'm, like, super-quick. Superman in a phone booth quick."

It took everything in him to turn his glower into a somewhat convincing, if brief, smile. "That's fine. The dressing rooms are over this way."

"Thanks," and he squinted at his sales associate tag, "oh. That doesn't have your name."

"Bradley."

"Thanks, Brad. I'm Joe." He smiled even wider than he had before.

" _Bradley_." A pause. "It's not a problem."

He found Joe an empty stall. Bradley leaned against the wall and wished desperately for his iPhone or his garden burger or Melanie's death; he wasn't picky. A small part of him was delighted by the idea of going overtime into his lunch break; she was bitchy about his hours, like it was going to make up for the fact that she couldn't schedule her way out of a paper bag.

To Joe's credit, he changed fairly quickly; he hesitantly poked his head outside of the stall and glanced around to check if Bradley was still there. When he spotted him, he grinned.

"So, let me know what you think, okay? You can be honest."

Bradley managed, barely, not to laugh. In no universe was Joe a thirty. Thirty-two, maybe. Thirty was so tight it looked like he'd have trouble bending over.

"I don't know about those. The cut."

Joe frowned. Bradley knew from experience that no one appreciated even a hint that they were wearing the wrong size, and he didn't really care, but he preferred to avoid verbal abuse whenever possible. Joe turned around, looking over his shoulder at Bradley expectantly. "Really?"

He shook his head. "Try another pair."

Still frowning, Joe went back inside the dressing room. The pair was truthfully a little more flattering than the yellow monstrosity, which bunched and sagged in unfortunate places. At least in the tight jeans you could actually see his ass. Unfortunately Joe was not one of the very few people who could get away with wearing a size down. There was just too much of him, for a skinny guy.

"What about these?" Joe asked, stepping out again.

Bradley felt his face pull into a pained grimace. "Yeah, that is not working for me." 

Joe's expression turned wry. "Not flattering, huh?"

Bradley shrugged, because he was actually supposed to _sell_ things to the deluded people who swanned in every day thinking that sleeveless was for everybody, or that size was just a vague suggestion. He tried to be diplomatic. "I don't really know you, so. If you want to know what you look good in, you should ask your girlfriend."

Joe's eyebrows knotted in confusion over the bridge of his glasses. "My girlfriend? I don't have a girlfriend." His eyes widened in comprehension. "Oh, you mean Demi, right? She's my best friend." He laughed, quieted a moment, and laughed again, harder. "Seriously, not my girlfriend. And she'd just want to stick me in a ripped shirt and a motorcycle jacket, or something."

"Ouch."

He had a sneaking suspicion that Joe was very, very gay. Either that or oblivious to his best friend's overt attempt to make them look like a couple. Hand-holding, seriously? Bradley couldn't think of one singular person he'd want to stroll around hand in hand with, unless he was interested in having sex with them, and even then not really. He didn't have to stoop to holding hands to get laid.

"Yeah, we don't really see eye to eye. That's kind of why I wanted your help."

Someone came in get into a room, and Bradley backed flush against the wall to make sure no one tripped in the process. 

Joe was tugging at the hem of his shirt, staring down at his legs, his striped socks. "Honestly, I don't know if I like these. They're not really me."

"They're pretty much what we carry." He snapped his gum. "Why don't you try Old Navy?" 

Joe's mouth dropped open. "Wow, bitchy."

Bradley grimaced again. This why was Melanie shouldn't have fucked up his schedule; he had a hard enough time pretending to like people when he was in a _good_ mood. "Sorry, I'm just having an off day."

[This is where the doc ends, folks. Joe was ultimately going to ask Bradley on a date.]


	3. Fanboy!Joe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is faaairly self-explanatory; it's an unrelated AU where Nick has achieved success as a singer/songwriter with Nick J & the Administration, and Joe is a photography student who goes to one of his shows. Featuring a little bit of Christian!hipster!Joe, and... basically just Nick being Nick, only more famous.
> 
> I started this for ashavahishta.

They had major equipment malfunction ten minutes into the set, right in the middle of Conspiracy Theory. It was no easy fix; Nick had nothing to do except grill the techs and let the audience watch as he tore his hair out, so he went backstage and drank a bottle and a half of water to cool down. Literally and metaphorically. Sonny was fond of mocking the perpetual stick in his ass, but he kept quiet when things like this happened, leaving him to sulk in privacy, pacing back and forth like a rat in a cage. 

There was a three-beat rap on the door, and Michael leaned into the room. "Hey, they fixed the speaker, the amp shorted out. They're plugging in another one." 

Nick might have kicked a trash can. Gently. It didn't even tip over. If he stayed standing he might actually do something as asinine as inflicting property damage, so he sat in the makeup chair, rubbing at his eyes and trying to ignore his less than flattering reflection in the lighted mirror. "Fine." One of the bulbs was flickering, irritating like mosquito buzz. 

Michael didn't laugh at him, but judging by his tone, he was trying not to. "You want some Xanax? The whole stage could collapse and you wouldn't notice." 

"What, and drop my guitar? I'll pass." It wasn't the first offer of Xanax, or booze, or weed, and it wasn't going to be the last. It was practically a Vaudeville routine; they offered, Nick refused, they offered, Nick refused. Like one day they might catch him in the right mood and he'd say yes. 

"Suit yourself." 

Nick nodded at him in the mirror and he left. He spent the next seven minutes drinking bottled water, screwing the cap on so tight between sips he nearly wrenched his wrist twisting it off again. He thought about his encore, and how he was going to double the length to make up for the glitch, maybe take requests. 

It'd be well past midnight before he could even think about driving home, maybe close to two or three if he stopped to sign autographs and pictures. Which he would. 

"Yo, Prez, they're ready for us." 

There was an explosion of screams and camera flashes when he re-took the stage. Years near amps and speakers and screaming crowds had numbed him to it, mostly, and the stage lights were blazing enough swallow up the bright flashes and make them incidental. 

He tried to see the audience, squinting into what looked like a swarming, amorphous mass, so many people. Nick smiled and hoped it didn't look like a grimace. 

"Sorry, guys."

\-- 

After one major hitch, the last thing Nick wanted was for something else to go wrong.

He'd been aware of the drunk girls to the left and near the barricade before his set even started; Diane came backstage complaining about the shouting and the stupid signs they had. NICK PLEASE COME ON MY FACE wasn't the worst desecration of a poster board he'd ever seen, but it wasn't going to thrill the moms with their kids, either. He managed to ignore them all the way through the first half of his set, but when he brought out his Gibson for an acoustic version of Tonight, it was impossible tune out the yelling.

"Listen," he said into the mic, fiddling with his pick, "I really don't want to have to send security over there, okay? I'd appreciate it if you all would calm down."

They all screamed something back all at once, incomprehensible; he was a little glad he hadn't understood it. Nick squinted against the lights to look over at them, something he'd been trying to avoid. There were only four or five of them, and they didn't look _legal_ , let alone old enough to drink. All of them were flush against the barricade, glittery signs at half-mast from holding them so long. NICK PLEASE COME ON MY FACE actually wasn't the worst one.

"Seriously," he tried again, trying to make eye contact with one of them, any of them, but all he saw was chaos.

And then they knocked someone over. 

Security, who'd been waiting nearby for the inevitable moment they'd be needed, descended in a swarm of black shirts and grim expressions, quick and efficient as bulldogs. Nick watched helplessly from the stage as they had to bodily drag the girls out to a side door, knocking into people and probably stepping on them in the process. Nick's whole body was strung tight, his stomach a churning mass of embarrassment and worry. This didn't happen at his shows. This _wasn't supposed to happen at his shows_.

In the wake of the scuffle, everything seemed eerily quiet and still. A few people were taking pictures, of course they were taking pictures, but otherwise the moment just dragged on like it would never end.

"Is everybody okay?" Nick asked. He didn't sound nearly as shaken up as he felt. The crowd murmured something he took as assent back at him. He warily watched the space where the girls had been at the barricade gradually fill up with bodies.

He managed a few more sentences, some weird segue into playing music again, but Nick felt like he was only half there. It took five minutes before he felt like his whole body wasn't attached to an unforgiving marionette line. Five minutes of trying to get back into a headspace that remembered lyrics and how to play the chords to State of Emergency. It seemed wrong to be playing anything at all, let alone something so fast, but the audience shed their discomfort well before he did; people were dancing and screaming along like nothing had even happened by the chorus.

\--

He kept an eye on the left hand side of the barricade for the rest of the set. He knew it was paranoia, the girls were gone and no one was going to let them back in, but he couldn't completely shake feeling spooked. It was just a cluster of fans the same as usual, a few of them little girls on their parent's shoulders, and he smiled at them when they saw him looking.

There was a guy there, too, one Nick hadn't noticed before. There were always guys at his show, but none of them ventured all that close to the stage, probably not wanting to square off against hysterical thirteen year olds for the territory. But this one, he was right up there, camera around his neck and expression serious, standing out from a sea of pastel in his flannel.

The guy snapped off a picture and lowered his camera. He must have noticed Nick was looking straight at at him because he jerked his head down like it was a twitch. Nick looked away, let him be; he was probably a reporter, maybe a music blogger; his camera was nice, the kind of nice Nick typically saw from press and professional photographers. 

But when Nick looked back, holding out the mic to the audience during the chorus of Who I Am, he was singing along, smiling, and taking pictures between lyrics. He took them sparingly, not snapping two hundred blurry shots like everyone else on their iPhones. Nick couldn't see him all that well with the camera in front of his face and at a distance, just the cut of his jaw, the edge of his black glasses, but he seemed nice-looking, and it flattered Nick, flooded him with the feeling. This guy liked him enough to brave standing at the front, braved girls in MRS NICK JONAS shirts just to take some pictures.

Nick smiled every time he looked in that direction.

–

Every single photo of him after the show that night must have been hideous. Sweat had taken his hair from curly to a whole new dimension, ringlets flopping over his eyes no matter how many times he swept them back, and Nick was pretty sure he was flushed pink from spending an extra hour on stage under hot lights. But he posed and smiled and signed for everyone commendably persistent enough to stand outside and wait for him.

He was nearly done, though the group of fans hadn't dispersed much; they hung around to take more pictures and basically stare at him like he was painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Nick turned for another photo, bending to get both of them in the frame at an even height, and he saw the same guy from the concert standing back near the equipment bus. 

Nick turned for yet another photo, not getting the chance to see if the guy was still hovering. He'd gotten a better look, and he _was_ good looking, tan and sturdy. By the time Nick got a chance to turn and look again, he was gone.

Guys came up and talked to him, asked him for an autograph or a picture all the time. A few of them were nervous but mostly not; it was fine, the same as every other person who approached him.

But this one didn't.

\--

The show at the Wiltern went off without a hitch. Nick was too busy playing his ass off to be relieved. 

He saw the guy when he settled in for his usual acoustic run, and at first he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, that it was wishful thinking. But he looked a few more times and sure enough it was the same guy, wearing a button-down this time, but the glasses and camera were the same. He was in the middle, just past level one, not exactly the advantageous spot he'd scored last time. He was singing along again, and he must have thought he was lost in the crowd, because every time Nick looked in his direction he didn't so much as blink.

He stepped offstage to wait for his encore and on impulse told Big Rob to head into the crowd and find him. Rob looked pained, like Nick was asking him to dive into piranha infested water, but he badgered him into it, saying he'd make the dude's day.

"What does he look like?" Rob said, shaking his head.

"Glasses, dark hair. He's got a nice camera."

"That's real specific, Nick."

"Put him in the green room," Nick yelled after him, and barely had enough time to drink some water before heading back on the stage.

He tried really hard not to keep an eye on Big Rob when he saw him in the crowd, but he was like a beacon. People literally cleared out of his way. Nick looked away and focused on nailing the Kings of Leon cover; he'd only played it live once before, and he'd fumbled some notes.

He glanced back in time to see Rob gesturing for the guy to follow him, the dumbstruck and slightly nervous look on the guy's face.

\--

It wasn't a meet and greet, specifically; that was held before the show. Some girls had won a (la station?) radio contest, VIP tickets and extra one-on-one time with him. Nick shook hands, signed CDs and posters, hyperaware the whole time of the guy in the corner - Rob told him his name was Joe - just standing back and watching. It was half an hour of lipstick and perfume and nervous smiling. Joe was the odd duck out and not just because he was a guy.

The girls were ushered out after pictures (and hugs, for most of them, tight press of slim bodies, perfume and hairspray permeating Nick's personal space) and then it was just the two of them, Joe nervously fiddling with the lenscap on his camera. Nick walked closer, somewhere between amused and concerned at the way Joe was looking at him, like Nick was an advancing execution squad.

"I didn't get to meet you last night," Nick said, aiming for casual and friendly. The whole thing was pretty weird; he was starting to second guess himself, and Joe was clearly pretty freaked out. It didn't help.

"What?"

"Last night. You were there, right?" 

Joe couldn't seem bring himself to look anywhere near Nick's face. "I-- yes?"

"You took pictures," Nick went on. He felt like a jerk; Joe's was practically on fire he was blushing so fiercely. But Joe _was_ out back the night before. He'd clearly wanted something. Unless he was just fond of lurking in alleys. "Why didn't you come up and say hello?" Nick said, lamely, even though the answer was patently evident. Nick's presence apparently made Joe want to crawl into a hole and hide.

"I guess I'm starstruck," Joe said, like a question, tilting the camera in his hands, finally managing to dart a look up to what was probably Nick's right shoulder. "I don't – I've never met anyone famous before."

Nick didn't know what to say to that. He was famous. It was part of his life, he was reconciled to it; it was weird, but he wasn't going play it off and seem like he was going for false modesty. "Your name is Joe, right?"

"Yes," Joe said, sounding surprised.

"I asked Rob," Nick explained. "I'm not psychic." Almost everything coming out of his mouth was weird and strained. But Joe looked less like he wanted to bolt when Nick was talking. "So. Joe. I'm Nick."

Joe smiled weakly. "Yeah."

"You... like to take pictures?"

It was a nice camera. He'd noticed it before, and it was hard not to now, with Joe playing with it as a nervous habit. 

Joe shrugged and nodded at the same time. "I'm a photography major. For right now, anyway."

Nick wasn't surprised. "That's cool. Where do you go?"

"Azusa."

Nick knew a few people who went to Azusa. Friends and and relatives of people he'd known over the years, a few through the church his mother had made her home away from Jersey and Texas. If Nick had any interest in taking a break long enough to go to college, his parents would fight long and hard for him to go to a Christian university, and Nick would pretend to think about it before trying for a place in Cornell or somewhere. 

A degree from a college wrapped in an Evangelical bubble wasn't something he could see himself wanting anymore. He was starting not to feel guilty about it.

"Do you want to sit down?" Nick asked, once he realized they were standing there uselessly. Bottles of Aquafina were calling his name from the minifridge. 

[BELOW THIS POINT: is a whole bunch of prospective, messy outline. There's potential dialog, it's written terribly, and it's me basically deciding how to write the sex. Read it if you wish! My apologies for the lowercase.]

\-- 

 

"I'm not blowing you on some crappy couch." 

when nick gets a finger in, joe just says "oh" and tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling. cautiously, nick slides it deeper,  
pushing it in in a slick glide to the middle knuckle. joe's body isn't sure if he likes it, stomach tightening, little muscle twitches,  
but when nick pulls out his finger and crooks it a little, giving him a moment, finger hovering at his hole, joe makes a questioning sound.

"You want it back in?"

he's not going to take another liberty without permission. joe has to GIVE it to him, not let him take. if joe doesn't want to go any  
further than they already have, or if he just wants to come in nick's mouth, nick's fine with that.

"yeah, you, if you want." nick keeps his laugh quiet, doesn't want to embarrass him, but he's unbelievable. nick doesn't go around having sex with dozens of people, he's pretty inexperienced compared to most people his age, but he's always been a quick learner and having this guileless, nervous, twitching wreck is something else. it's nice.

he slides it back in, a little firmer this time, letting his finger wriggle, and he pulls it out even faster. on his push back in, joe  
gasps and clenches hard.

fingering, head, sloppy, Joe still wearing his shirt and staring down, hands knotted fists in the couch. He feels good, almost as good as he looks, with his tight black jeans around his thighs, and Nick's got a grip of them so he can't move around even if he wants to, trapped on the couch. Not looking like he minds, particularly. 

the zipper's actually biting into the meat of his palm, he's holding them so tight. 

"I really shouldn't be doing this." Leaning away, he groaned and pushed his hands through his hair. "Bad Nick." 

"I'm sorry." 

"No, it's --" Nick clenched a fist, body so tense it felt like he felt like the adrenalin from stage hadn't worn off yet. "You're fine. You're great, I just don't do this." 

Not in the dressing room at The Roxy, not with some guy on the couch next to him that smelled like hairspray and stale nicotine. "Not with fans?" Joe asked. 

"Not in general. I don't -- I just met you an hour ago."

[As for where this went after, it was basically just going to be a PWP, but I tentatively planned a sequel where they stayed in contact, tried to date, and we found out a lot about Joe. It featured:

\- Joe at his university.  
\- Joe not being out.  
\- Joe being oblivious to the fact that this is indeed an Actual Relationship. He dates a girl he knows for a while, Nick finds out, Joe is confused when Nick stops speaking to him.  
\- During and after all of the above, Joe having problems with the stuff surrounding Nick's celebrity status (i.e. the potential for them both to be outed).  
\- Joe wishing he knew how to quit Nick, and yes I just made a Brokeback reference.  
\- Sex.  
\- A happy ending where Joe figures out that what he really wants is Nick!]


	4. Greaser!AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am a sucker for 50s AUs, and we got a lot of greaser-esque photoshoots of Joe back in the day.

There weren't very many hoods at Ramapo, and Nick tried to steer clear of them as a general rule, but they made it a point to call Nick out every time they saw him.

He didn't understand what it was about him that made him such an easy target. The easiest answer was his faith; no one particularly cared that he came from Eastern Christian to a public school, but _they_ did. Nick just tried to keep his head down and ignore it, like his dad always said, but no matter how quiet he was, how invisible he felt, they'd appear out of nowhere, usually just before school started. They'd grab his bag and go through it or dump it out, ask him where his Bible was, make fun of his chinos, ruffle his hair until it snagged and pulled between their fingers. They never did anything as predictable as take his lunch money or beat him up, but they might as well have. 

Nick didn't even pray about it. He knew violence wasn't the answer, even though his friends said one good right-hook would solve the problem, and snitching to the teachers wasn't an option, never mind that it wouldn't do a thing. Everyone was paranoid they carried switchblades, so not a single person went against them, said anything. Sometimes Nick wished Kevin was around, wondered if he could do something about it, but he'd graduated two years before, and anyway he was about as intimidating as a kitten.

Today his books and papers were all over the ground. His English paper was smeared with dirt, bent at the corners. At least Henrie hadn't stepped on it this time. He was crouched to pick it up, keeping a wary eye on his guitar in case they decided to come back for another round. 

"Real clumsy of you, Jonas."

He glanced up, startled, but Miller was already going to his knees and scooping up the rest of Nick's stuff. "I've got it," Nick said hurriedly, yanking the books from his hands and stuffing them into his bag. He stood and standing and hitched the strap of his bag over his shoulder. 

Nick picked up his guitar and cradled it against his chest. Miller stood up too and was watching him, tongue pushing at the inside of his cheek. His glasses always made him look a little bit comical, friendly or something. To his (small) credit, he didn't throw Nick's stuff on the ground, but he was inordinately fond of yanking on his hair as though he was a girl in pigtails.

"What do you play?"

"The guitar," Nick said.

"No shit," Miller said, making as though he was going to reach for the case. Nick flinched back and almost instantly regretted it. "What kind?" he asked, though, like nothing had happened. 

Nick stared at him suspiciously. "Gibson."

"Cool. Didn't know you played, Jonas."

"I'm sure a book could be written about the things you don't know."

He knew he shouldn't have said it, but the first bell had rung and Nick's patience was evaporating fast. Odds were they'd catch him walking home, and Nick figured he might as well earn the treatment for once.

But Miller only laughed, and Nick caught a glimpse of chewing gum between his teeth. "Funny.

David Henrie, the unquestioned leader of the dimwits Miller ran around with, appeared behind Joe, frowning.

"Joey," he said, eyes narrowed at Nick, "you coming?"

"Yeah, I'm in a real hurry to fail my biology test," he said, but he was backing away from Nick, hands in his pockets, grinning. "See you later, Jonas."

\--

It was raining when school got out. Normally Nick wouldn't care, but he was carrying his guitar and his shoes were new. It was a three mile walk back home, and he resigned himself to getting soaked to the bone on the way there.

He was ten minutes into it, hair already dripping, when Joe Miller drove by on his stupid motorcycle, so close to the sidewalk he splashed dirty water all over the bottom of Nick's pants.

[This ultimately becomes Joe simultaneously bugging/harassing and desperately trying to befriend Nick, who he has a giant crush on. It was going to feature Nick borrowing Joe's jacket, getting rides to school (pressed close to him on the bike! it's technically cuddling!!!11), furtive blowjobs, and Joe defending Nick to his lame little gang.]


	5. The 2018 'Verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See the notes below. This is, as the title indicates, a futurefic set in 2018.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was the second fic I started plotting, once I got into the fandom, and it's possibly the most epic of them all. It's been through several iterations, but the basics remain: Nick lives in NYC doing Broadway stuff, Joe is in L.A. with a fiancee and a middling career (he's basically the diet Coke of Ryan Seacrests), and when Joe breaks up with his fiancee slash ruins his own life, he runs to Nick. They have a lot of bonding, they deal with the family, Joe re-establishes himself, they start doing little intimate acoustic gigs in NY, and ultimately there's a big thing at home for the holidays. Joe/Nick ensues after that. 
> 
> I went through several versions of Joe's fiancee; some may remain in the draft, but mostly they've been replaced with [fiancee]. I couldn't figure out who he'd be with in 2018, and I didn't feel that excited about bringing in an OC.

His phone rang just as he walked through the threshold; answering it with his arms full of grocery bags was the worst kind of juggling act. He nearly lost three oranges in the scramble, and a can of something rolled out of his apartment and across the hall, coming to a stop near the elevator. Nick somehow managed to extract his phone from his pocket without dropping it. 

"Yo," he said, cutting off Kevin's John Mayer ringtone mid-chorus. 

"Have you heard from Joe?" 

"Hello to you too." Nick nudged the front door closed with his foot; he'll go back for the can later. He tossed his keys onto the counter where they landed with a loud jangle. "I sent him a text yesterday." 

"Did he text you back?" 

Joe's personal assistant brought him his mail once a week, but he couldn't be physically parted from his phone. He also tended to down Red Bull and stay up until four a.m., which meant he slept most of the day and growled like a bear if woken up. Nick doesn't take it personally when it takes him a while to reply. "Nope." 

In the background Nick could hear kitchen sounds; a sink running, something that might be a frying pan, Kevin's girls putting plates on the table with all the grace you'd expect from six year olds. "Great," Kevin muttered, and then, "Girls, be careful, those aren't plastic." 

"What's up?" 

"Hold on." He heard the sound of a door closing, Kevin shut off from the rest of the house. Nick paused in the middle of rearranging bottles to make room for his carton of milk, worry tensing his shoulders. "I stopped by Joe's house earlier. We're supposed to go to that [award thing?], right, and we were going to lunch today to talk about it, only his place is, like, abandoned and he isn't answering his phone." 

It was supposed to be all three of them at the [awards show], but Joe and Kevin shot him down when he made noises about taking some time off to fly down to L.A. It was hard not to feel guilty, but it wasn't exactly a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award, just some label-sponsored thing, and he needed every minute of his rehearsal time. And Nick really didn't envy Kevin being dragged along with Joe to discuss perfect tie coordination. 

"Did you try the studio?" 

Kevin sighed. "Hasn't been in for a few days." 

Nick forgets about the groceries and leans back against the counter, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to think. "Okay, okay. Did you try [fiancee]?" 

"That's the thing. She said they had a fight." The tiny ball of panic that had been forming in Nick's stomach relaxed a little. "And she hasn't seen him for a few days either." 

That didn't sound like Joe, but Joe didn't make a habit of fighting with anyone, he went out of his way to avoid it, so Nick didn't have a baseline to go off of. "He's probably at the beach or something, cooling off. Joe's not going to pack up and leave because of a fight." 

"Tell that to [fiancee]." Kevin's tone was high and almost breathless, which meant he was pissed and had likely been tearing his hair out with worry all day. "I'll call his agent. You... try Joe again, he might answer you." 

If Joe was holed up in some beachside hut nursing his wounds, Nick doubted he would answer, but it was worth a try. "Sure. Yeah. I'll call you if I get ahold of him." 

"Should we call mom and dad?" 

"What? No. It'll just worry them, and mom'll freak out if she thinks there's the smallest chance the wedding's going to be delayed. I'll handle it." 

"Yeah," Kevin said glumly. Nick didn't exactly feel sanguine about the whole thing either. He couldn't even muster up a lame joke about wedding jitters. "I've got dinner, I should go." 

"Say hi to everyone for me. I'll call. Love you." 

Kevin hung up, and Nick was left with groceries all over his counter. He dialed Joe's number first, not caring if his frozen yogurt liquefied, but it went straight to voicemail. 

Nick went and got the can from the hallway, staring at it as he tried to figure out what the other shoe might be when it inevitably dropped. 

\-- 

He was sweaty from stage lights and the cheap blend of his t-shirt when his phone buzzed against his thigh. Nick made it a general rule to turn it off during rehearsal when any disruption could teeter his tenuous ideas for the scene off balance, but Joe hadn't called him back, and Kevin said there was nothing on his end either. 

_u better pull out the futon bro_

He abruptly ducked backstage, and no one asked about it, or the likely ridiculous face of incredulity he could literally feel himself making. _Where ARE you???_

_nyc!! u home?_

Rehearsal was scheduled until nine, but sometimes they didn't get out of there until eleven or later, on weekends pouring into a greasy Chinese place in Lower Manhattan to decompress and drink. It was a Saturday, and Nick was supposed to be eating lo mein at some point that night, but it looked like he was going to be dealing with Joe's relationship issues up front and personal instead. 

_Fifteen minutes_

Saturday traffic from Times Square to the Village made it more like thirty, and Joe was waiting for him in the lobby, brown rolling suitcase at his feet, wearing a matching brown peacoat with the buttons all fastened. He flashed a smile at Nick, looking in no way like he'd spent the last few days at the beach or having an existential crisis. All things considered, he looked better than Nick did, who was clearly tired from endless hours of rehearsal, and flushed from suddenly being thrust into November air after the heat of the theater. 

"What are you even doing here?" he asked, before Joe could reach out to hug him. "Everyone's freaking out." 

Joe gripped the handle of his suitcase and shrugged, rocking it on its wheels like a bored little kid. "I felt like a change of scenery." 

"Does [fiancee] know that you're here?" 

Joe's eyebrows rose and his lips twitched up in a smile to match. "I just got off the plane, dude. Do you mind holding the third degree until we're out of the lobby?" 

"Sure. Fine." 

Joe followed him to the elevators, wheels and hard-soled shoes rapping against the slick floor, and he pressed the button for it like six times, rapid fire. 

[unfinished scene; basically they make awkward small talk all the way to Nick's apartment.]

\-- 

Kevin picked up after two rings. "Yeah?" 

"He's here." 

There was a long pause and something like a click in Kevin's throat. "What?" 

He could hear Joe in the kitchen, rifling through his cupboards and humming to himself. Nick leaned back against the toilet tank. He felt pretty stupid hanging on out his closed toilet seat, but the bathroom was the only place he could go to call Kevin without Joe suspecting he was up to something. "He pretty much showed up at my doorstep." 

"Did he say anything?"

"Other than telling me to pull out the futon," Nick said peevishly, "no. He put me off."

"You have to talk to him."

The framed print of Paris on the wall opposite him was just slightly off-center. He got up and carefully nudged it left. "What am I supposed to say?"

"Oh, I don't know, _why are you here_?" Kevin said, voice rising pitchily. "Have you talked to your finacee lately?" 

"Yeah, that's going to go well."

When he came out into the kitchen, most of Joe's upper body had managed to squeeze into his freezer as he pawed around inside of it. "Is this ice cream still good?" Joe asked.

"Yeah, I just bought it last weekend."

"Great."

"Don't you have to, I don't know, _work_?"

Nick didn't get a lot of opportunities to watch Joe on [show]. He had a backlog of it on his TIVO, and he kept half-heartedly reminding himself to get around to it. At the end of the day, calling Joe and actually talking to him was a lot easier than suffering through fresh-faced hopefuls murdering every single Burt Bacharach song they came into contact with, and _nothing_ was worse than Joe's fake over-enthusiasm, not to mention what they did with his hair. He was never going to be the next Ryan Seacrest, but it was a steady job between whatever half-baked idea Joe had for what to do with his career from one week to the next.

Joe shrugged, arm flexing as he furiously dug to the bottom of the tub of ice cream. "No. Season hiatus; I'm on _vacation_ , dude." He sucked a smudge of mint chocolate chip off of his thumb. "If they need me, they can call me."

[unfinished scene]

–--

[Some of this will include outline rather than actually writing, SORRY!]

Scene:

Finish Joe and Nick talking about it; Joe's putting him off, Nick's annoyed, can't get any answers (MENTION JOE NOT GOING TO THE THING WITH KEVIN, and Joe either forgot or is sheepish), and he's snappish, and Joe finally deflates and looks tired and says, "Nick, I really don't want to talk about it. Please." And faced with Joe looking like it's serious, he gives Joe the benefit of the doubt. They order food; Joe asks him about the play, if he's dating anybody (opportunity to slip in Nick's weirdness?), they talk about Kevin. Nick makes sure the double bed he has in the guest room the only person who'd ever slept there was Joe in the first place, but he kept it generic just in case. He goes to bed and he knows Joe's still up in the living room, watching late-night tv.

\--

Scene:

Nick's up the next morning, trying to be quiet. To his surprise, when he goes into the bathroom the shower's already been used, warm and smelling like someone else's aftershave. Curious, Nick goes out and sees Joe on the couch, dressed and drinking orange juice. He'd remembered to put out a coaster. "I made you some breakfast but it's cold."

"I sleep in late on rehearsal days."

"What time do you have to be there?"

"Not for another hour."

"Great, you can keep me company."

Joe looked a lot different in the cold light of (late) morning, not nearly so pristine in his glasses and with his legs crossed on top of Nick's coffee table, glass cupped in his hands. He was remarkably less cheerful than the day before, but that didn't mean anything; if Nick didn't already know something was wrong, he'd think Joe was just tired or something.

"I have to get ready, but I guess we can hang," Nick said doubtfully, watching Joe flip through channels. He glanced up at Nick and nodded. "I'll leave you a key so you can come and go, if you want."

Joe nodded again, this time doling out a small smile. "Thanks." He turned back to the TV and sipped his orange juice.

Nick gets ready, checks his levels first. When he's showered and dressed, he's only got another twenty-five minutes or so, and he devotes the time to making a shake and slicing himself an apple. Joe's abandoned the TV and is in the kitchen with Nick, making an attempt at conversation, shouting when the blender is on, and Nick's almost laughing at him.

Nick's gathering up his bag, packing things, his script (though he's got it memorized), and for the first time they hug, which makes Nick realize how weird it was that they haven't already. It's nice, the shape of Joe's body sturdy and familiar, and Joe's palms smooth over Nick's back, his version of encouragement. 

"Go kick some ass," Joe said brightly, sending him off with a gentle shoulder thump. 

"I try," Nick said, surprised at how much better he felt now that Joe and he were acting like normal, even if normal was currently in a different zipcode. "Here's the key." He pressed his spare key on its pewter Yankees keychain into Joe's palm. "I'll see you later tonight."

Opens door, has a foot outside. 

"Nick?"

Turns around.

"Thank you." It's obvious he isn't talking about the key. 

\--

Scene:

He lets Joe put it off for a few days, thinking that Joe will crack when [fiancee] starts calling, or when his mom does, but Joe isn't constantly on his phone like usual, and he bets all of his savings that Joe has been dodging everyone. Kevin said he hadn't called, and Joe would never bail on someone without apologizing. He's clearly hiding.

Joe's been doing nothing as far as Nick can tell but hanging out on his couch, going out at night mostly with Nick, for dinner, but a couple of times he thinks Joe's going to the bar, and it makes him so angry he slams pots and pans around in the morning under the pretext of doing dishes. He's going to do with the full weight of his knowledge (Kevin talked to Alicia????? and Nick would have but it felt too intrusive and he would have felt like a guilty party on both sides of the fence) and he's pissed Joe's put him off so many times. 

"You going out tonight?" Joe asked, stacking clean plates inside of Nick's cupboards. 

"No."

"You haven't been out once since I've been here, Nicky," Joe laughed, giving him an incredulous look over his shoulder while he stretched up onto his toes to get a better reach. "I don't mind if you go out and live your life."

"It's fine."

They'd had this conversation before, when Joe kept teasing him about the girlfriend he just _knew_ Nick was hiding somewhere. Nick eventually managed to convince him that he was single, and he thought they were done until Joe started pondering which of Nick's co-stars were hotter and where he should take them out. Joe thought he was helping, was the thing, and he didn't care how annoyed Nick got.

"Seriously, I don't need a babysitter."

"Neither do I. If I want to go out, I'll go out," Nick said, tone going tight without his consent.

"Well, good." There were glasses left to be put away, but Joe put them off in favor of looking at Nick. "Not that I'm not delighted by the idea of hanging out with my favorite brother, but I'm just saying, aren't there some girls you could be wooing in your free time?"

Nick snorted. "Not that I'm not delighted by you slowly becoming one with my couch and eating all of my food," he said sarcastically, "but don't you have a wedding to plan?"

[more dialog was likely meant to go here] "If you want me out of your hair, you can just tell me."

"I don't want you _out of my hair_ , but you've got a life and a finacee back in L.A., and what, you're on vacation suddenly? Without telling anybody?"

"I don't have _anything_ back there, Nick," Joe said vehemently. "God, you know that. I have a shitty job and now I don't even have a fiancee, okay? "

"Joe," Nick said, struck with how sick it made him to hear it, even though he'd known it and had been wanting the admission so fiercely it was starting to wear at him. 

"Don't pretend like you don't know, okay?" His voice cracked. "I know that you know. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I wasn't excited to have to sit down and tell my family what a loser I am."

Joe was nearly crying, and Nick was standing in the middle of his kitchen, completely helpless as to what to do. Every day Joe had gone around with this big thing he was hiding, Joe who never hid anything from him, and it had driven the tact and patience right out of Nick. This wasn't Joe dodging responsibility, this was Joe miserable. "I'm sorry."

[filler needed, clearly]

They discuss it a little, and Nick says that only Kevin and he know for sure that Joe and Alicia are over. "You should probably tell mom before it gets out," Nick said. "Because it will."

Scene ends with Joe going off to his bedroom with the phone tucked between his face and shoulder, and the tone of his voice when he says "Mom?" just before he shuts the door makes Nick close his eyes.

4) He comes home from rehearsal early, and he finds Joe and some of Joe's friends sitting around his living room watching a game. They only notice him when he's hanging up his coat and dropping his satchel to the floor.

"Nick, hey." Joe practically bounded off the couch, holding a platter of vegetables and dip. When he got to Nick, he was suddenly hesitant, eyes uneasily dipping to Nick's shoulder and back up to his face. "I asked some people over, I hope – I should have asked, I'm sorry." He was smiling sheepishly, but Nick could tell Joe was really worried Nick was pissed.

"It's fine," Nick said, only lying a little, because he really doesn't appreciate people in his space without forewarning, but Joe having friends over was some kind of step in the right direction. 

Joe almost slumped in relief, and Nick realized they were both still on uneven ground after last night. Nick smiled, trying to be reassuring, and Joe grinned back. "I told them not to get their shoes on your couch," Joe informed him. 

"Good. Or you'd be paying the cleaning bill."

Nick knows one person there really well, from a tour, and a couple of them he's met. They're all happy to see him, and Nick settles in to watch the game, watching Joe laugh and shout things at the screen out of the corner of his eye.

[unfinished scene]

\--

Scene:

Everyone's gone, and they're cleaning up Joe tried to shove him away, but Nick's collecting cans and already took out one bag of garbage despite Joe's protest that it was _his_ mess.

"You just can't stay still," Joe accused. "You always have to help."

"I'm not doing anything else," Nick said. He scrubbed at some melted cheese with his fingernail.

They work quietly for a few minutes, and it's nice, kind of like doing chores at home when they were kids. 

"It was cool to see [person Nick knew from tour]. I didn't know he was in New York."

"He lives here," Joe told him, tossing something into the garbage can to Nick's right. He must have been done with cleaning up the living room; he came up to the counter and leaned against it, watching Nick load the ridiculously small dishwasher that he'd have to load and run twice just to get everything. "We've been hanging out."

"Oh. Cool."

Suddenly the image of Joe whiling away the hours on Nick's couch seemed a lot less vivid. He didn't know Joe was going out. He could see him going the movies, maybe, and to the store, but going out with people who weren't Nick? It hadn't even crossed his mind. He was a little embarrassed by his lack of objectivity. 

–

It was hard to say whether some sort of pessimistic veil had been pulled off Nick's face, or if Joe was actually living more of a life. Nick called him during breaks and Joe was yelling to be heard over the noise of street traffic, and he'd invite him for lunch with the cast only to be turned down when Joe said he had plans in Long Island.

Joe wasn't _happy_ , it wasn't that. Their mom hadn't called either of them in a week, and Kevin's conversations were weary and almost always with Nick, and Nick was pretty sure Joe didn't get enough sleep each night. But it was something.

Bonding. They play music, they hang out more. Joe convinces him to come out with his friends, and to bring some of his own, and they do, hanging out in some hole in the wall place that still charges fifteen bucks for appetizers.

\--

[LOTS OF STUFF GOES HERE]

\--

 

The first time Joe says anything, it's in the middle of an otherwise normal conversation. They're discussing Kevin and Dani.

"Alicia wanted a pastor for the ceremony, you know?" he said, eyes alight with mirth even though nothing was particularly funny. "We got into a huge freaking fight over it. Dad's a _minister_ , why wouldn't he marry us, right?" Joe was looking at Nick expectantly, so Nick gave a hesitant nod. "But she flipped out because I hadn't asked her, and _I_ flipped out because I'd let her handle every single detail and didn't argue about the ugly colors she picked. And then she basically accused me of not caring about anything and told me I was selfish for making her do all of it." He shook his head, chuckling a little. "Ironic, right?"

"Is that when you left?" Nick asked.

"No."

[unfinished, alas]


	6. If You Want To (I Can Be Dirty Too)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick/Samantha Barks het. Featuring fingering (and yes, Nick is the receiver).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this is het! So keep that in mind. It's not Joe/Nick for once. I started this for a kink meme forever ago.

She holds her breath when she slips her finger in, trying not to stare at her slick index finger as she hesitantly pushes. Nick's so tense he's not even breathing, and she feels like this was all an awful, awful mistake, but hopefully he would say if this was a deal breaker. It would be the worst thing in the world if this was his attempt at being a _gentleman_ , just another step in his quest to be the Best Boyfriend.

"Are you okay?" she asks, shifting on her knees and trying not to shake as much as her body wants to, vibrating inside her own skin.

He's hot and tight and his rigid body is probably making him tighter. She's not going to push in any further until he says yes. Says anything at all, really.

"Fine," he says, staring at the ceiling with a locked jaw.

Sam knows him well enough to realize that watching him down there is making him incredibly uncomfortable, so she keeps her eyes on his face, which isn't the greatest idea either, but it's not as if she's going to stare at the wall. Nick would probably relax a little if she had a bloody blindfold on, but that's not happening. 

"We can stop," she offers, feeling guilty for the disappointment she feels at the very idea. She can feel each breath he takes, and it feels like he's sucking her finger in by degrees. She fights to keep her hand steady.

"No, you wanted to." That's what he says or very clearly thinks every time they do anything. 

He brings her coffee and CDs he thinks she might want with this earnestness that he's obviously trying to conceal, awkwardly shrugging her off when she smiles wide and thanks him. He kisses her gently like he's giving her something with that, too. He strokes his fingers over her and stares at her quietly when he finds her hot and wet. She knows it's hard for him and it makes her heart constrict a little when he shrugs that off like it's just another CD and says, "it's fine" and "you liked it, right?"

She's said "you don't have to" around a hundred times, but he keeps giving. She thought this might be the time when he said "no," possibly with a "thank you" tacked on to the end. He didn't. He raised his eyebrows at her in shock before he caught himself and played it off like it was her saying "will you go down on me," which she likes to think is a perfectly normal thing for a girl to ask her boyfriend, but "can I put my fingers inside you" is _not_ perfectly normal. 

He's uncomfortable sometimes that she's been with people before him, and he does a fairly decent job of hiding it, but his need to please and to be better than whatever came before him is the main reason she's kneeling between his thighs and he's letting her keep the light on.

"I'm going to push in now," she tells him, and he grimaces but nods.

She didn't have any lubricant; that would be hard to get ahold of without someone finding out. She has Vaseline for when her lips chap from the weather, and it's sticky and thick on her finger, all the way up to her hand. It works very well, gliding past resistance like they've done this before when they absolutely have not.

It gets a noise out of him that startles her, takes away her focus. She starts to pull out, giving the whole thing up because terrifying her boyfriend is not going to happen, but Nick tilts a thigh up and out the smallest amount like he's letting her in.

"No," he says firmly, "we're not quitting."

She laughs before she can stop herself, shaking her head at him. She puts an encouraging, thankful hand on him, rubbing the supple inside of his thigh. The one mercy is that he isn't completely limp, and she hopes she can get him the rest of the way hard with a little bit of prodding. A giddy bubble of laughter pushes up in her chest again when she realizes she means that literally.

It's difficult jerking him with her left hand, but she manages. He's filling up as fast as he usually does, warm in her palm. Her hand looks tiny around him and he isn't remarkably big, just thick in a way she whimpered around the two times he put himself inside of her. He seems somewhat stunned that she always wants to touch him, that she wants to do this for him, and she tries to make it as good as humanly possible, and she's trying to do that now from a clumsy, left-handed position. Clumsy enough to push her finger in far faster than she meant to – it's hard to multi-task when she's looking at him and touching his cock and he's squeezed hot around her finger.

Now she's up past her second knuckle, about have to contort her hand so she can get all the way inside. Nick's hard and breathing heavily through his nose, shifting on the bed like he either wants to shove up into her palm or away from what else she's doing to him.

Another noise is forced out of him when she pulls out in a long, crooked twist, and he's so lovely. So good to her. Boys gave her flowers and held her hand and did their best to make her feel good, but Nick's sacrificing his own ideas of what's normal, letting her do something she knows he thinks is filthy.

She wriggles back inside of him, and he spasms around her finger and thumps his head back against the pillow. He's winding up, freaking out, and she slows down, rubbing at the head of his cock to keep him where he is. She's starting to suspect he's freaking out because it isn't awful, because it's really good once you get past what it is and what you suspected it would be. Or she's desperately clinging to wishful thinking.

Sam's knees are a little sore from kneeling for so long. She shuffles and rocks around a little to redistribute her weight, and she didn't think that moved her hand too much, but Nick grunts. As a test she pushes in and out like he does when he's fingering her, and he grunts again. It's on the tip of her tongue to ask him if it's all right, or if he likes it, but that would be a mistake, so she just goes for it, fucking her finger in him deep. She lets go of his cock to guide his hips up the smallest amount, and he spreads for her. It's embarrassing how it takes her breath away.

His chest is heaving and his mouth is hanging open. He definitely _likes it_.

She doesn't waste time. Feeling drunk, she fumbles for the open container of Vaseline and pulls her finger out long enough to get two, and then a hopeful three, slippery with the stuff. It smears on his ass when she hurriedly goes back in, leaning down to get a better angle. This time she stares because Nick isn't paying attention to where she's looking. His – his hole is shiny and her finger working into it looks absolutely obscene. A wild jolt of heat takes her by surprise and she wants to clench her thighs together.


End file.
